


Itch

by freakbook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Public Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakbook/pseuds/freakbook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggles with his body, uncomfortably aroused at odd intervals. The common thread is clear enough but he doesn't want to see it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itch

It kept happening. He kept blaming the dearth in cases, the accompanying, boring, pent-up anxieties that nearly had him bouncing off the walls... but he knew it was more than that. It wasn't the unsolved ones really, it wasn't the boring ones at all, it was the memory of the really good ones. They nagged at the back of his mind. They gave him an... itch. 

It started slow and rapidly gathered strength, it spasmed sometimes through his fingers, to his toes, but always, always came back to a distracting, tingling mass of need at the base of his spine. 

It was embarrassing, getting physically excited like this. At the stupidest, smallest reminders. Last night he'd been sifting through dusty records, three straight hours in archives, his back aching, just on the verge of calling John to take over what was rapidly becoming menial labor... when it had happened. Suddenly. The smell. The phantom waft of chlorine and he'd gone instantly hard. 

His face flushed bright red at how obvious he was. The connection between stimulus and response couldn't have been more direct and simple. He was like a dog trained to salivate at the sound of a bell. After... practically nothing. It was ... 

He'd heard a cough behind him. An old woman with wet hair telling him he couldn't use his phone in the stacks, while his penis was uncomfortably hot and insistent between his thighs. He'd waited until she was gone, then pressed the heel of his palm down... 

Every time it seemed like the worst time. He'd go red and shiver and argue with himself, tell himself it would've been better in any other setting, under any other circumstances. More personally justifiable. Coming in his pants in a crowded room, for instance, his emotional blinders would've been up, his disinterest in everyone around would've protected him, in a way he'd never be protected from himself. Now, like this, on his back with no circumstantial chaos in which to bury and explain away his orgasm, just his own fantasies (presumably), that endless inner chamber of his mind, echoing with desires and wants and... 

He snaked a hand below the waistband on his pajamas. It must have happened early on in his REM cycle because most of it had dried. Also he'd gotten hard again just lying there, stewing in his own personal embarrassment. He squirmed slightly and gripped himself, closed his eyes just as his phone started vibrating next to him, distracting him through the first stroke, causing a low moan to escape. 

He turned his head. Sideways. He could see Jim's long, convoluted text. There were numbers in it. The sentences didn't seem to string together in complete thoughts, but by now he was stroking himself more rapidly, groaning out desperately as he thrust his hips up to fuck his fist. 

It happened again later that morning. As he was stacking books in the living room, cataloguing, realizing another volume had gone missing. Added to Jim's personal collection. 


End file.
